Poetry is like making a joke. If you get one word wrong at the

Hear, O lovers of words and seekers of precision, the voice of W. S. Merwin, master of verse, who declared: “Poetry is like making a joke. If you get one word wrong at the end of a joke, you’ve lost the whole thing.” In this teaching lies the reminder that art is fragile, that the power of a poem rests not only in its ideas but in its exact expression. Just as the punchline of a joke collapses if uttered poorly, so too does the weight of a poem falter if its words are misplaced.

The meaning of this saying is that poetry lives and dies in its precision. A poem is not a careless river of words but a carefully chosen path, where each syllable matters, where the placement of a single word can alter the entire force of the whole. A joke, though brief, depends on timing, tone, and accuracy. So too a poem: if one word misses its mark, the rhythm is broken, the meaning is obscured, and the spark of revelation is lost. In this way, Merwin reveals that poetry is not indulgence but discipline.

The origin of this truth lies in Merwin’s own practice as a poet who stripped away punctuation and excess, leaving words bare and sharp. He understood that language carries weight, that in the smallest shift lies the difference between greatness and failure. His comparison to the joke is not meant to diminish poetry but to honor it, for both demand economy, clarity, and exactitude. A joke that rambles is forgotten; a poem that wastes words loses its fire.

Consider the story of Haiku, the ancient Japanese form of poetry. In a handful of syllables, the poet must capture eternity. Each word must be chosen with the care of a jeweler setting stones. Bash?, master of this form, once walked for days searching for a single word that could capture the spirit of a frog leaping into a pond. Had he chosen poorly, the moment would have been lost forever. This is Merwin’s teaching in action: one word wrong, and the whole poem collapses.

Think also of the orators of old, like Demosthenes, who labored endlessly over his speeches. It is said he would repeat lines hundreds of times, practicing by the sea with stones in his mouth, until every word rang with perfect force. For he knew what Merwin reminds us—that the failure of a single phrase could undo the power of an entire argument. Precision in speech and in poetry is not luxury but necessity.

O children of tomorrow, hear and heed: words are not to be squandered. They are arrows, each aimed at the heart. If loosed carelessly, they fall short or miss their mark. But if chosen wisely, they strike true, and a single phrase can outlive empires. To write poetry, therefore, is to labor with reverence, to weigh each syllable as if the fate of the whole depends on it—because indeed, it does.

Practical wisdom calls you: when you write, speak, or tell stories, attend to your words. Do not rush them. Read them aloud, test their rhythm, listen to their truth. Ask yourself, “Is this the word, or merely a shadow of it?” Be patient, for precision requires time. And when you hear another speak with clarity and economy, honor it, for you are witnessing mastery.

Therefore, remember the counsel of W. S. Merwin: “Poetry is like making a joke. If you get one word wrong at the end… you’ve lost the whole thing.” Let this guide your writing and your speech. For the poet and the storyteller alike, it is not abundance of words that creates greatness, but the perfect word in the perfect place, spoken at the perfect time. Guard this truth, and your words will endure like iron, sharp and unbreakable, echoing long after your voice is silent.

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